


Five Kisses

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crying John, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, three garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5932567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first kiss is a mistake.  Well, not a mistake—obviously.  But, it slips out, when Sherlock is exhausted, and overwhelmed, and terrified, when John is on a white, polished, marble floor, one hand gripping his thigh, the other slipping in the swiftly expanding pool of his own blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little attempt to cure this horrible writers block.

Their first kiss is a mistake.  Well, not a mistake—obviously.  But, it slips out, when Sherlock is exhausted, and overwhelmed, and terrified, when John is on a white, polished, marble floor, one hand gripping his thigh, the other slipping in the swiftly expanding pool of his own blood.

“Tell me what to do?!”  Strangled, frantic.

“Press here.  Press hard.  Call 999.”

And Sherlock does, and a woman is saying something, and he is giving an address, and then his mobile is clattering to the floor, and John’s eyes are rolling back, his face pale, his lips grey, and Sherlock has to keep him there, with him, alive, breathing.  

He kisses him.  

He murmurs things he doesn’t remember against John’s cold, dry lips, and he tastes the salt of tears, and the tang of blood, and he kisses, and kisses and kisses him.

And John stays.

 

* * *

 

Their second kiss, is a balm.  John, in the hospital, angry at his dead wife, angry at himself, angry at the unfairness of life itself.  He snaps at his nurses.  He is wilfully uncooperative with his physical therapist.  He waffles between shouting at or ignoring Sherlock.  It’s not John, not really.  Sherlock knows John well enough to know that.  But it hurts none-the-less.

The evening Sherlock shows up with a bag of Chinese from the little shop down the street from the hospital, and John ends up knocking it out of his hand, in a fit of pain-fuelled anger, sends it flying across the room, and skittering across the floor, Sherlock forgets to hide his feelings, and he feels the bite at the corner of his eyes before he is able to swallow it down.

That is when John cries.  John takes one look at him, and then at the mess he’s made, and he breaks.  It feels like years worth of tears.  it’s the sort of thing that wrings you out, and leaves you weak, and exhausted for days afterwards.  And Sherlock doesn’t know what to do, so he sits, and lays a hand on John’s back and waits.

And when the worst of it passes, Sherlock leans down, and kisses his forehead.  He’d been unsure if John even remembered their first kiss.  So this one is a risk.  But John’s eyes slide shut, and stay that way, and Sherlock stays, holding his hand, until he sleeps.

 

* * *

 

Their third kiss is in the back of a cab on the way home from the hospital.  John is staring and staring at the cane propped against the seat between them.  He’s looking at his leg.  He’s worrying.  He’s worrying about what it will mean now.  What will he be?  How will it impact their life, his ability to help with the work? 

“It will be alright.”

John’s eyes snap to his.  “What?”

“You’re worrying.  It’s going to be fine.  We’ll adapt.”

“We?”

“You.”

John goes silent again, and Sherlock berates himself.

“Maybe I should just go home.”

Sherlock frowns.  “We are going home.”

John looks away, looks out the window, at the rainy city racing by.  “I meant my flat.”

“Sell it.”

John shakes his head.  “It’s all I have left.”

“No.”

It’s only five minutes to Baker Street.  Sherlock is running out of time.  

John shifts in his seat, reaches for his cane, and Sherlock takes his hand, before he can stop to think about it, lifts it to his lips and ghosts them across John’s knuckles, before laying his hand gently back on the seat again.

John’s eyes dart briefly to the front seat, and their driver, whose eyes have never left the rush hour traffic ahead of him, before returning to Sherlock’s.

“Come home, John.  ‘Home’ home.  Not—not that empty flat.”

John does.

 

* * *

 

The fourth kiss comes a week after John gets home from the hospital.

He requires help with everything, but especially his physical therapy.  He’s embarrassed and angry about it.  That’s clear.  But the fact still remains that he does need help, and since Sherlock is the one constantly available, it is only logical that he be the one to assist.

“Let go, Sherlock!”

“No.”

Silence.  John scowls down at Sherlock, who is on his knees in front of his chair, John’s calf cradled in his large hands.

“You need assistance, John.  You know you’re not strong enough to lift the full weight of your own leg yet.”

“Fuck off!”

Sherlock blinks, sets John’s foot back on the floor and sits back on his heels.  “Alright.  If you can do it yourself.  On you go.”

John’s eyes darken, and a muscle twitches in his jaw.  He knows he can’t, but this is John.  It’s not going to stop him from trying.  He holds Sherlock’s gaze as he does his best.  The pain must be excruciating.  His face reddens, his pulse quickens, his breath goes from even, to small, pained hisses of determination.  And to his credit he does manage to straighten his leg to lift it up an inch for the merest hint of a moment, but…

“Fuck!!”

“May I help, now?”

“No!”

“John…”

“No!!”

“This is completely illogical, and you know it.  My help, at this point, will aid your recovery, not hinder it.  If you keep trying to do this entirely on your own, you’ll just cause more injury, and that will prolong your recovery even farther.”

John sniffs, looks away.

“Please, John.”

A small furrow forms between John’s brows as he stares into the hearth.

“Please…”  Sherlock lightens his tone, lets a tease of a smile creep in along the edges.  He sees the corner of John’s mouth twitch, hears the small of huff of fond amusement.

“Please, please, please…”  And he raises his hands in a prayer of supplication, while forcing his expression into the very best imitation of beseeching he can manage.

John does laugh then.  It’s brief, fleeting, but a smile remains as he finally turns away from the hearth to look at Sherlock again.  And that is when Sherlock does it, without thinking, leans down, presses his lips to John’s knee, and stares up at him through his lashes.

John’s lips part, he draws in a trembling breath, and then let’s it go again, pupils dilating.  When he finally remembers to breath again, he sucks in a quick breath, and shifts a little in his seat, causing Sherlock to pull away.  

“Fine.  You can help.  But let me do the weight of it.”

 

* * *

 

The fifth kiss is a month after that.

“Suit yourself.  I’m only trying to help.”

Sherlock, dashes up the stairs, bags of shopping in his hands, and leaves John on the landing.  He’s managed to put away nearly all the food by the time John finally hobbles into the kitchen, cane clacking against the linoleum, and collapses into the nearest kitchen chair, rubbing his thigh with a hiss. 

“You’re due to take your pain medication,” Sherlock says from the fridge, where he is putting away the milk.

“I know!”  Short, sharp.

The pain is bad then.  

Sherlock fills a glass with water, gets the medication from the cabinet next to the stove, and then slides both onto the table in front of John.

John takes it in silence, leans back in the chair, with a wince.

“You would be more comfortable on the couch.”

“I’m fine.”

“Alright.  I’m going to get caught up on my reading, then.”

Sherlock pushes past John’s chair, and that is when John reaches out and grabs his sleeve.  “Sherlock.”

Sherlock stops, looks down at him, at the small beads of sweat along his hairline, all the tension he’s holding, the deep furrow between his eyes.

“Maybe—maybe bed would be best.”

“Alright.  Do you want help?”

“I want—“  John swallows tightly, but he doesn’t look away.  Not once.  “I want you to come with me.  I want you to stay.”  
  
“Alright.”

And once John is settled, and Sherlock is propped up beside him, journal in his lap, John’s fingers inch across the blanket, knuckles nudging gently against Sherlock’s thigh.

“I owe you an apology.”  John’s eyelashes are long, and beautiful, brushing almost against his eyebrows as he glances up at Sherlock from the pillow.  “I do,” he insists, when Sherlock says nothing.

“For what?”

“The way I’ve been since—everything.”

“You’re in constant pain.  Pain has a way of draining your resources.  It’s fine, John.  Really.”

“It’s not, though.”

“Alright.  Then I accept your apology.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes.”

John grows quiet.  Several minutes of silence pass them by.  Sherlock reads, waits for John’s breathing to even out.  He’s exhausted—clearly—but he’s fighting sleep.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm…”

“Can you come down here for a minute.”

This is new.  Sherlock sets the journal he’s reading on the bedside table, and lays down, rolls onto his side, so he’s facing John.  And John looks at him, looks and looks, but says nothing.

“Are you alright,” Sherlock finally asks.

“Yeah.  Just—just give me a minute.”

Sherlock nods.  Waits.  John’s fingers find his, twine with them.

“You’re different, Sherlock.”

Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond to this, so he says nothing.

“You’re different.  Or maybe—maybe it’s me who’s different.  I—I don’t know.  The point is, you’ve been nothing short of amazing with me since—everything.  And I’ve been nothing short of appalling with you, and I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, Sherlock.  It’s nothing you’ve done.  I need you to know that.  It’s not you.  It’s me.”

“Alright.”

“I’m glad I’m here, home, with you.  I never should have left.”

“I never should have left.”

John nods, swallows tightly.  “Not sure you were really given a choice, there.”

“Perhaps not in the moment, no.  I didn’t expect you to get back so quickly. I would have spared you from having to watch if I could, John.  But once you were there—it was selfish, I know, but I wanted—I needed to say good-bye.”

“Were they real then?”

“What?”

“The tears, the tears I thought I could hear in your voice.”

“Of course.  Of course they were, John.”

John gulps in a breath, nods, and releases it again.  “I missed you every day.”

“I missed you every day.”

“Even when—even with…  Everyone said I had to move on, you understand.  Everyone told me I needed to get on with my life.”

“Quite right.”

“But I never wanted it.  There was no life without you in it.”

The confession sucks all the oxygen from Sherlock’s lungs.  It’s not that John hasn’t written similar sentiments in the past, but to hear it come from his lips, to see the way his eyes glitter as he says it, the way his body draws in, closer, with the confession…  Sherlock feels dizzy.

“And you’re back now, and from the first moment, I’ve done nothing but push you away in one way, or another.  And I want that to stop, because…  I need you.  I want you—in my life, to share a life.  It’s—that’s what I want, Sherlock.  If that’s okay with you.  I want to share a life with you now.  Because second chances don’t just come every day, do they?  And we’ve been given second, third, and fourth chances.  It sort of feels, sometimes, like someone, somewhere wants this.  So, who are we to fight it, yeah?  Seems rather silly…”

John’s been drawing closer the whole time he’s been talking, and Sherlock can feel the soft, tea-sour waft of John’s breath against his lips, see the way John’s pupils have dilated, dark, and lovely, how his scent has changed, very subtly, to that heady, tantalising thing that only comes on the heels of arousal.

Sherlock knows he needs to speak, that things such as this don’t happen every day, and that if he remains silent the opportunity will slip away, likely never to come again.  It’s unbearable, that thought, and yet, the words will not come.  And he panics.  Why won’t they come, when his heart is full to brimming with them?

But John must see it all in his eyes somehow, or he just decides to finally, finally toss all caution to the wind, and try.  And when his lips finally meet Sherlock’s  it’s electric and grounding, all at once.  Every muscle in Sherlock’s body lets go, melts against John, as a surge of hot, white desire spikes through his veins, and causes him to moan quite wantonly, quite embarrassingly into John’s mouth.

“Christ…” John breathes back, and then it’s all desperate fumbling, pants of breath, and frantic thrusts after that.  It ends so quickly, each of them with their hands wrapped around the other’s cock, chasing their pleasure until it crashes over them in a matter of minutes, leaving them trembling, and sated in one another’s arms.  

Sherlock’s skin is tingling so fiercely it burns, and his head feels light, euphoric, like the sorts of fantastic highs he used to chase in his teens, the ones he could never quite seem to catch, save for one or two rare, and wonderful occasions.

John pants out a laugh against his neck, and then another, small giggles that soon turn into sobs.  It’s fine.  There’s so much in him that’s never let go.  Sherlock tightens his arms around him, and waits.  The tears should terrify him, but they don’t.  If they were a sign of regret, John would have gotten up and left already, but he’s pulling closer, not pushing away.

“I’m sorry—sorry.  I’m so sorry…”  mouthed messily against Sherlock’s neck.  And it’s not what they’ve just shared that John is sorry for.  It’s something else…  Something…

Sherlock pulls John closer, partially because John seems to want it, but partially because he aches.  As close as John is in this moment, it’s still too far away.  He wants to pull this pain out of John, and into himself.  He wants to transform it, and give it back to him as something new, something better.

“I love you…”  John breathes against the sensitive spot behind Sherlock’s ear.  “I’ve always loved you, from that very first case.”

“I love you too, John.  From the start.  Just the same.”  The words come easily.  His brain is quiet now.  It’s not fighting him anymore.  Sherlock pulls back a little, looks down at John, who’s eyes are still full, spilling over now and again, almost without him seeming to notice.  Sherlock smiles.  John smiles back.  It’s a start.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'Five Kisses' by sussexbound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148725) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)




End file.
